iMeet a Hobo
by pinkconchshell
Summary: Freddie strikes up a conversation with a mysterious man, who seems to know Sam from somewhere. Could it be the father she never mentions? "See ya 'round, boy," the man said over his shoulder. "Ya take right good care o' her, ya hear?"  Seddie.


iMeet a Hobo

I don't own iCarly

….

The man had a musky, earthy stench, and his breath, which swirled across Freddie's face and made him want to vomit, stunk like years and years of hard liquor and drugs. His skin, which would have been white were it not for all the facial hair and grub, looked aged and worn, leaving Freddie to guess that he was about in his late forties. He wore a filthy windbreaker, and jeans so old they looked as though they were one of the first ones made, and his long mane of gray-streaked hair was matted and signaled to every one of Freddie's senses that it was inhabited by several different types of life forms.

He wanted so bad to leave, move, to just get up and walk away from this strange man, but he felt that it would be rather rude, so he stayed put and held his breath, clutching the edges of the park bench with such force that his knuckles became white.

_Where _are _those girls? _He thought, scanning the playground for Carly and Sam. He spotted them on the sea-saw, Carly aiming the camera while Sam bounced up and down, holding a bowl of oatmeal in her lap and attempting (unsuccessfully) to land a spoonful in her mouth every time she went up. Where they came up for ideas for iCarly, he'd never know.

_Help me! _He pleaded silently. _Please get me away from him!_

The last thing he ever expected the man to do was speak to him.

"Beautiful day, 'aint it?" he said contentedly, stretching his hands out along the edge of the back of the bench. Freddie tried his best not to cringe as the putrid smell sharpened and stung his nostrils.

"Gorgeous," he muttered, turning away.

To his irritation, the man continued. "Right perfect place to be on a day like this, eh? Used to come here with ma' lady a long time ago… long time…"

"Uh huh," Freddie answered, seriously doubting that this lady of his had really existed.

"You gat a lady?" The man said suddenly, elbowing him in the ribs. Freddie shuddered.

"Uh, no, actually. Sadly."

The man chuckled. "Why shore ya do! Lookit the way you's eyin' that pretty little chicky all the way over there! Boy, you gotcha eyes poppin' outta your head!" He nodded at Carly and Sam on the sea-saw, and Freddie laughed.

"Oh, no, not Carly. I mean, I used to, but not anym-"

"I meant the blondie, son! Come on, jus' the way you're starin' at her, even I kin tell that she gotcha head over heels!" The man said, smacking Freddie on the back of his head exactly where Sam always did. His eyes traveled to her, and as he watched her golden curls bounce up and down, and heard her laugh carry over all the way to where he sat, he felt the lie slide out uneasily.

"Sam? Come on, old man, really? I mean, you don't even know her, but if you did, I think you'd change your mind. She's crazy! She's a crazy, demonic, blonde-headed psychopath, and she'd break my leg if I even mentioned anything like that to her!"

The man chortled. "So Sam's her name, eh? Short for Samantha I'd wager. How precious. She looks jus' like her ma."

Freddie started. "Excuse me? How do you even know what Sam's mom looks like?"

But it seemed as though the man didn't hear, for he leaned forward, gazing steadily at his petite friend as though examining a painting. Freddie watched him uncomfortably and suspiciously, ready to jump on him should the situation call for it. What a weird old man he was turning out to be!

"Fifteen, ain't she?" he said.

"Sixteen. We're all sixteen," Freddie corrected.

The man let out a whistle. "_Sixteen_. Shore was fast, know what I mean?"

"No," Freddie said.

The man said nothing. Instead, he reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out a brown paper bag, which by no means Freddie doubted contained some sort of alcohol. He raised it to his chapped lips and took several deep swigs, before lowering the bag and belching loudly, rivaling even Sam's loudest one.

"And the other one? Sister?" he asked. "They shore act like it, ain't that right?"

"Sam and Carly are like sisters, but they're not actually related." Freddie explained. "Carly, Sam and I – we're all best friends."

"Ah," said the man. "You's a ladies man, eh? Hangin' 'round with all these pretty girls – no won'er they's all flockin' to ya like you're some kinda prince or somfin'…lookit these here biceps…and ya gotta cute little face on ya too."

"Um…" Freddie said, not really sure how to respond. "Thanks. But they don't flock to me. Actually, all of us are just really good friends, that's all. Sam sure likes to hit me a lot, and bruise me, and call me names and beat me up and mess with me, but I think she thinks the same thing too. Deep down."

"Feisty, eh? Good, good." was all he said. Then with a sigh, he stood up and took one last swig from his paper bag, and then let out a belch even louder than the first. Chuckling, he pushed the bag into Freddie's arms and walked off towards the exit, leaving a very confused Freddie in his midst.

"Wait!" Freddie called. "Where are you going? Don't you want your bottle?"

"See ya 'round, boy," the man said over his shoulder. "Ya take right good care o' her, ya hear?" And Freddie watched as he left the park, never stopping to look back. The man simply disappeared around the corner, and when he was finally out of sight, Freddie let out a small yell and booked it towards the see-saw, vowing never to sit alone on park benches again.

"What happened to you, Benson?" Sam demanded upon seeing Freddie's unnatural pallor.

"Are you okay?" Carly asked, concerned. She eyed the bag in Freddie's hand. "Freddie, you haven't been _drinking_, have you?"

"No!" he shouted, thrusting the bottle at Sam. "No, it was some weird hobo who just started asking about you, Sam! He said you looked like your mom and some other weird stuff and then he just pushed this into my hands and walked off! Can we please never come here again? Please?"

"He said I looked like my mom?" Sam said thoughtfully, ignoring him. "What'd _he_ look like?"

"Like a hobo!" Freddie exclaimed, making Carly step back a bit. "He was all scummy, with grayish-brown hair and blue eyes, and he smelled _terrible_. Please don't tell me you know him, Sam, because that would be so awkward." 

"I don't know him," Sam said, staring at the bottle.

"Come on, let's get back to my place, it's getting dark, Carly said, standing up and heading towards the park exit. They walked in silence a little bit ahead of Sam, who trailed behind them quietly, turning the bottle over and over in her hands, deep in thought.

"Carly," Freddie whispered, casting a glance back at Sam to make sure she wasn't listening. "Is…um…is it really that obvious that I – you know-"

"Like her?" Carly said briskly. "Yes Freddie. It is."

Freddie flushed and said nothing more.

…

It was her dad, in case nobody got that. Not my best idea for a story, but it always feels nice to get an idea out of your head. It's like when a song that's been stuck in your head finally gets dislodged and you're mind's all clear.


End file.
